


equally damaged

by Sonny



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Comment Fic, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wincest (Light)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-04
Updated: 2011-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:14:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonny/pseuds/Sonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>dean or sam's first kill on a hunt. Whoever did the killing is in shock and freaked out, even when john praises them. The other brother tries to provide the needed comfort - from ronny_of_yore on LJ</p>
            </blockquote>





	equally damaged

**Author's Note:**

> For the Like A Virgin : Feels like the first time... a sam/dean_otp comment fic and art meme

  


  
  
**equally damaged**   
  


“Where's Sammy?” Dean's a bit stunned by John's return from the hunt: the twinkle in his eyes, the excitement in his step and the fact that Sam wasn't behind him. He couldn't help but be concerned.

“Impala, I guess.” John can't help the spring in his step on his mad dash to the bathroom. He doesn't mean to be rude, but the pitcher of beer was teetering in his bladder; he throws guns and knapsack in Dean's direction and bolts.

Dean manages to catch everything in both arms, even the light whiff of alcohol, cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. It's a terrible mixture that makes Dean gag and then he throws the stuff in his arms on the couch. He doesn't even care about John's state; he's off to find Sammy. At first, he goes to the window; he wants to see if he can spot exactly where Sam is, since John took such a wild stab in the dark. Sam's been known to climb out of the Impala, at times, and just go walking... to nowhere in particular. He just wants to get away from John.

He lets the curtain fall back in position and pulls down his leather jacket from the hook by the door and steps outside in the cold. Blowing on his hands as he cups them around his mouth, Dean looks up and down the sidewalk in front of their motel room door and catches sight of a brown head leaning over as the Impala's passenger door opens. The sound of vomiting is emitted from Sam as he pukes onto the parking lot and not in Dad's precious car interior.

Dean hides his smirk as he turns up his collar to ward off the chilly breeze. “Lovely, Dad... just wonderful...” It's not Sam's fault that John Winchester has a warped sense of accomplishment. Nor the fact that he wants Sam to grow up a lot faster than he seems to be willing to at sixteen.

Dean knows this situation all too well—the celebratory Winchester First Kill drinking binge... and Sammy's first drink, a beer or a mixed beverage. Dean's not judgmental; he's been exactly where Sam is, but with less willingness to be independent of the Winchester legacy. He pulls out the coins from his front pocket and wanders down to the soda machine and searches for something “fizzy” to buy Sam. As he turns to look over his selection, Dean glances across the street to the plaza across from the motel's parking lot. He takes out his wallet to check his cash situation. He's got his own plans for Sam... and they don't involve booze, bars or loose women.

Dean wanders to the open door, side steps the splatter of sudsy beer puke and holds out the ginger ale toward Sam. “Drink up.” Sam hasn't taken the can so he taps it on the arm close by. “It'll settle your upset stomach.”

“Oh, hey, Dean...” Sam slowly turns his head to find his brother right beside him—like always. “... guess what?” He's got a sly lift to one corner of his mouth. He knows Dean's aware of where he's been, what might have happened.

“What?” Dean plays along anyway, because he sees how shaken Sam is; it has nothing to do with being drunk or sick to his stomach.

“I did it.” Sam states the comment clearly, saying it loud enough for anyone in the parking lot to hear.

“You did?” Dean pretends to be fascinated, like a little kid is telling him some exciting tale.

“—yup...” Sam nods his head, forgetting how much it aches, but he closes his eyes and opens the can of soda.

“Well, good for you.” Dean knows it wouldn't be like him to not bust Sam's balls. It important to focus on the now, it'll help Sam move on from here. “Should I call the mayor and arrange a parade in your honor? Or how 'bout a key to the city?”

Sam snorts as he lifts the can to his lips. “Dad's pleased.” He takes a tentative sip and swishes the liquid inside his mouth.

Dean has known John Winchester to be a man who finds joy in the oddest of places. “eh, he would be.”

“He's happy.” Sam seems startled by the thought. He stares out the windshield, his gaze narrowing in deeper concentration. “I've never seen him _that_ happy.”

“It's the little things, Sammy.” Dean knows it's true, because John had much the same reaction on his own “first kill” when he was sixteen too. Almost like a Winchester right of passage.

“He wanted to celebrate...” Sam makes a look of disgust on his face because he couldn't muster the need to party after a killing.

“yeah...” It sounds all too familiar to Dean's ears. He looks down at the parking lot blacktop, scuffing his boot tips on the pavement. He has no easy explanations that will quell Sam's emotional state. Dean has to play this by ear and move along.

“... a bar...” Sam seems to grow more ill the more details he mentions. “... it was—dark... an' smoky... lots-n-lots of women...” He doesn't know why he stresses more on the “lots-n-lots of women”, but he hasn't ever seen his Dad happy and in the company of so many women and taken their offerings so willingly. Not that he thought John Winchester was a saint, but that there never seemed to be anyone else to take the place of his beloved wife.

“oh, well, that's nothin' new.” Dean swallows hard because he knows what it feels like to see Dad hitting on beautiful women. In Dean's head, it smears the pristine image of Mom, but then again... they have no idea what John Winchester suffers inside, because he never tells them; they only see the aftereffects of pent-up rage and hidden emotional struggles. He clears his throat to mosey on with a further comment, “Bars are all all the same, just the towns change.” It sounds like a good enough anecdote. Something Bobby Singer might say.

Sam takes another, longer drink from the can. “It's good.”

“What?” Dean averts his head only to bring it back in case he missed something important.

“This soda.” Sam holds up the can, saluting Dean to it having been a good idea to bring him for his upset stomach.

Dean smiles with some dashing charm as Sam gives him a look from the side of his eyes. “Cures what ails ya.” He feels like he wants to wink, but he stops himself. He shouldn't tease Sam just yet.

“Dad bought me whatever was on tap.”

“Bud?”

“Miller.”

“Figures. Next time, ask for Heineken or Guinness.”

“... I will.” Sam chuckles lightly, leaning his head back on the bench seat to arc his neck.

They know there won't be a “next time” for quite awhile.

Dean's getting a little antsy, wanting to start this moment, not let it waste away. “You gonna come out soon?” He begins to pace, glancing at Sam to see if he'll need help to make it out of the Impala.

“I'm feeling sick again.” Sam doesn't move; the only movement is him blinking.

“Then we'll stay here until you feel better.” Dean lets out a soft sigh as he leans back on the bodywork of the car parked next to them. He crosses his ankles, then he folds his arms. He'll wait forever out here, if he has to. This is his life; these are the lulls in that life he choses to have.

“Dad inside?” For the first time, Sam thinks about Dad as he lifts a lone eyebrow in curiosity.

“Yeah...” Dean nods his head, then scratches at his cheek. “... he hit the head, so he's possibly passed out now, asleep.”

“He kiss'd a woman.” Sam rushes out the comment, because it's been bothering him all night.

“oh, yeah?” Dean's seen John Winchester kiss plenty of women. Sam's always been somewhere else, blissfully unaware. In fact, Dean recalls one night where John left him at the bar to go into a private “room” with another woman, coming out with a shit-eating grin on his face. So, yeah... Dean _knows_.

“He kiss'd a lot of 'em.” Sam didn't mean one after the other. He'd seen two or three of them come up to Dad and just... all grabby hands and puckered, painted lips. He'd never thought of John Winchester as much of a “rock star” but to some he supposes that he is.

“Well, you made him happy, Sammy.” Dean hears that comment on his ears and even _he_ thinks it's kind of lame.

“He said I...” Bile rises up through Sam's throat and he swallows the sting, making his voice crack a bit. “... 'made him proud'...” He's shocked by all the little things that struck him after his first kill. How everything Dad did was a thousand times more aggravating and annoying than ever. The words he said falling flatter and less meaningful because he sipped at one beer while John Winchester bought for himself numerous beers and several shots, not to mention the round for the other patrons at the bar with him.

“Did he now?” Dean forces himself to act stunned by the news. A lot of what John Winchester says these days doesn't seem to pack the same power or fear in them; the Winchester boys have seen too much and know enough to not believe in Dad's tales any longer.

“I get an 'A' in Biology an' he wasn't _that_ proud...” Sam recalls that Dad wasn't impressed by much when it came to school. It was as if in order to keep up appearances was when school was found important. Sam didn't need to retain any of knowledge he was being taught. Just never let the family down or let the secret out.

“Biology doesn't help us do the things that we do for people.” The minute Dean says the words, he knows it was a stupid thing to say. But he knows Sam knew what he actually meant.

“Not true.” Sam shakes his head in disagreement and unfortunately the alcohol on his brain makes him think he's a little bit better than his older brother in this department. “Biology help'd me know where the nest was... I remembered it from when we studied the reptiles in class.”

Dean rolls his eyes, fully aware now that Sam just tried to best him. “Jesus, brainiac... do I have to guess this means you'll be in school forever.” He's beginning to tease and he needs to hold back or else he'll lose control and Sam will storm off angry.

“Nah, but...” Sam swallows the words clogging his throat as he lets his fingers play over the can in his lap. “... I wanna go to college.” He's said these words in his head often enough; they feel weird coming off his lips and into the air. This is what he wants, _right_?

“An' do _what_?” Dean has seen Sam do some kind of research to this fact, like looking over college catalogs and seeing what scholarships he could be eligible for as a junior in high school. He's pissed because he knows it's possible for Sam, because he hasn't bought into this whole “hunting things” lifestyle they've be in since they lost Mom. “This kind of life doesn't exactly direct anyone toward a certain vocation of specialty.”

“Law.” Sam barks out as he averts his head to the left, away from Dean's gaze.

“Breaking the law?” Dean teases again, but holds it in to go further.

“No, jerk...” Sam snorts out a chuckle. “... _defending_ the law...”

“Where?”

“I dunno. Not here.”

“Told Dad yet?” Dean glances away and looks off into the distance, across the street.

“I was about to, then...” Holding the can in his left hand, Sam makes a “faked gun” with his right and takes aim through the windshield and “shoots”. “... I shot the, uh... thingie...” He's already forgotten the name of the creature... monster... whatever, they had been hunting during the case.

“And it died?”

“No. It disappeared and then...” Sam didn't quite know how to explain it, because it slithered out and then disintegrated right in front of them. He sits upright, feeling his stomach churn with acid and bile. He places the can on the dashboard, trying to swallow his own saliva to breath in and out, but all he can taste is old vomit and stale beer.

“And then— _what_ , Sammy?”

“It turned into a human...” To which, Sam turns to lean over and releases more watery bile. This time he reaches out for the door handle, his whole body shaking. “... oh, gawd... I kill'd a man...” The words sound shaky and broken, like it's only now that it settles inside Sam's head what “hunting and killing things” really means to a Winchester.

“... the _host_ , Sammy...” Dean reaches over to cover Sam's hand, but Sam tugs away and jumps over the puddle of vomit and runs away... then stops to catch his breath in the middle of the parking lot.

Sam leans weakly against a random truck's fender, sitting down on the bumper step. He tries to even his breathing and wrap his head around the innocent life he took. He understands that the man was, technically, “dead” before he killed him, but... it's the principle, not the practical that hurts him the most.

Dean saunters over, hands shoved into his jacket pockets as he approaches Sam's hunched form with his head between his knees. “You can't let it get to you, Sammy. Any of it. Not every single time. I know it's not easy to look at them like they're not important, but... they really aren't. We lose a few to gain a hundred more. Think of the lives we save by hunting the things we kill.”

“It just seems wrong.” Sam shakes his head, unable to grasp that concept as any form of truth or common sense. “... not to make such a big fuss.”

“Well, if it's any consolation, I didn't want you to go with him in the first place.” Dean wants that fact to be known and out there between them.

“I know.” Sam lets out a small grin, a smaller head turn to glance at Dean in a silent appreciation. “Dad told me.” It was supposed to make Sam feel inferior, but he actually felt better that Dean had known him so well to think he couldn't handle killing anything at this age or any age, for that matter.

“I should've fought harder.” Dean paces in front of Sam, his head bowed in shame. “Told him I'd take you out on my own. We coulda fabricated a lie to cover you an' get Dad off your back.” He wants—needs Sam to know he has his back, always, and that he would never do what John Winchester did if it wasn't what was in his heart to want to do with his life. Why start him when he was only going to leave for college anyway? Dad didn't want to see the reality that was right in front of him... Sam will never agree with what they did for a living. Sam wants a different life for himself.

“He wants me here—with him, with you...” Sam can hear the difference to his own ears, when he speaks about Dad and Dean in the same sentence. One is favored over the other. With Dean he knows he's safe, protected; with John Winchester, Sam actually fears that his life is expendable as long as he gets the “kill”. “... hunting as we Winchesters do.”

“Is it really _that_ awful, Sammy?” It's rhetorical. Dean doesn't want Sam to answer him for real.

“uh, yeah... it is—I'm not... I'm not made like you an' Dad.” Sam has realized this fact, more and more, the older he gets and the more he's allowed to be in the outside world. “I can't flip that 'switch' so easily. I can't get it outta my head he look'd like a man an' _my_ bullet is in him.”

“What if...” Dean hates himself for what he's about to do, but it's how he's been able to cope and rationalize things inside his head and heart. “... the creature had Dad or I by the throat... or say, had us close enough to our own deaths to cause you to react to protect us... and had to shoot to kill... would you still see it as 'human' and want to let it live?”

“That's not fair, Dean...” Sam shakes his head with a snort out of his nostrils. “... of course I'd shoot.”

“So, then what's changed? The fact someone you care about isn't directly involved?”

“Death is death... I'm not sure justice—defending or protecting loved ones is always gonna be the case.”

“It doesn't have to be, but let that be what your head rationalizes when you sight your barrel and you look down the end to aim...” Dean gestures with his arms and hands the way one would do with a sawed off. Then he taps hard onto his own head, hitting skull. “... let it sink into your head that if you don't kill it right this second, it might come for me, or Dad... or even yourself.”

“Okay...” Sam nods his head in quiet agreement. He'll do it because Dean asked him to. Dad has nothing to do with his compliance. He wipes a weary hand over his face, running fingers through his long locks. “... I'll try, but I still feel like crap and I don't really care to celebrate a pointless death.”

“C'mon...” For the first time, Dean nears Sam to be able to put a hand on his head, securing the arm about the shoulders. “... Dad's out like a light and I got the keys to the Impala...” He twirls the key ring in his free hand to show Sam that he snuck back inside the motel and took the keys from wherever Dad had left them.

“No...” Sam pushes Dean away with his right arm against his chest. “... no more bars...” He speaks with a groan to his words, like he might be sick again.

“Nope.” Dean counts off the list with his fingers. “No bars. No beer. Not an easy lay in sight. Just us—you an' I—an' the road...” He motions between their bodies to show how they're like partners in everything they do. He needs Sam to know that he'll back him with any choice he makes—whether it be to stay or go away to college. “... we can go over to that Tasty Freeze, across the way... get two cones and then drive around town.”

Sam already feels better, just the mere words Dean utters give him a brightness to his dreary outlook for the day. He dreaded waking up knowing exactly what was waiting for him. “I think there was a beach nearby.”

“A beach? Okay... it's probably closed to the public, but we can find a way in, whatever you want.”

“Whatever **I** want?” Sam finally sits upright, looking over at Dean with a curious look to his face. He doubts Dean is fully willing to comply with _any_ of his wishes.

“Well, within means, Sammy...” Dean leans over to knock their heads and shoulders. “... but I am your designated driver.”

“... beer's nasty...” Sam thinks the aftertaste of everything in his mouth is fairly the most disgusting thing he's ever tasted.

“It's Miller. It's always nasty. Drink a Heiny or a Guinness.”

The moment goes silent between them. Dean removes his arm and sits with his body brushing Sam's as they just let the fresh cool air pelt their faces. Sam clears his throat, looks down and then over at Dean as he grabs onto the ledge of the step he's sitting on. He knows how much it annoys Dean when he stares at him, like he has “stars” in his eyes for his idol.

“Dean...”

“What?” Dean recalls he has some gum somewhere, in one of his pockets. If not, he'll buy some for Sam on the way.

“Thanks... for _this_...” Sam doesn't know quite where to point to stress his meaning, because he almost means _everything_. “Next time...”

“Eh, slow down.” Dean pushes off the bumper to walk away. He doesn't even have to look back to know that Sam will follow diligently, being one step behind him or right beside him keeping step. “First kills don't give you an open license to shoot everything. Pace yourself. But, yeah, _next time_... it'll be you an' I on our own little hunt.” He taps Sam's chest with the flat of his hand as he gives him the rest of his Trident spearmint gum and some Certs.

Sam has the silliest grin on his face because he sees that Dean had enough time to move the Impala so when he gets in the passenger seat he's not stepping in his own puke. He opens the door, hearing the familiar creak of metal hinges. “Think Dad will ever take us both?”

“I don't know. Probably not.” Dean opens the driver door to climb behind the wheel. He loves how “adult” and “manly” the Impala makes him feel. “But next time I'm gonna be there with you whether he wants me to be or not.” He shuts the door behind him as he inserts the ignition key and revs the engine to make her purr.

“Awesome...” Sam shuts his door right after Dean and settles himself right where he knows he fits perfectly. He can't remember when he and Dean began riding in the Impala together, but it feels... _right_ —like he's got a weird sense of home. “... thanks, Dean.”

“You can stop that now.” As Dean allows the engine to warm and idle, he bends chin to chest to brush off Sam's sweet and kind words. “We're family. We're brothers. Nothing will ever change that.”

“I love you, Dean.” Sam smiles at the awkward silence that looms between them. “It's okay. I don't need it said back to—”

“I love you too, Sammy.” Dean lays his hand on Sam's knee. Of course he then grabs the shape and tries to nearly crack the bone as he shoves Sam away. “... bitch...”

Sam retorts with his usual jab toward Dean to get him to stop pestering him with soft punches and tugs of his clothing, like he's gonna tickle a portion of skin. “... jerk...”

It sounds like they're calling one another names, but if anyone actually looks at their faces or listens closely to their vocal tones used... they'll find that the words are genuine endearments.

Dean ruffles a hand over Sam's shaggy hair, moving aside the bangs to kiss the temple. He leaves his arm up along the bench seat, letting Sam inch over to fit against his body the way he used to do as a kid. Now he's sprouting like a tree, all lanky limbs and wiry frame. He's growing out of that child-like form into a handsome young man.

Sam's still small enough to curl and stretch out on the bench seat. He perches his head on Dean's biceps, letting the shape roll until he falls against the strong shoulder. He loves the smells of Dean: old leather, a little gun oil and musky cologne. There's always a shock of warmth from the hard-edged body and the casual , every day clothes smell laundered and feel soft like a pillow. Sam closes his eyes to hold onto the memory and he's a little embarrassed he's actually comforted to the point where exhaustion sucks him into sleepiness.

Dean can sense the change in Sam as he backs out of the parking slot. He's not about to ruin this moment. Sammy's in his arms, curled to his body, head on his shoulder, reverting back to the sixteen-year-old he's supposed to be. Dean tries hard to let Sam have his childhood, but even more he's attempting to save every precious moment with Sam in case this idea of college has some solid weight to it.

He brings up his hand, combing through the brown locks and at the turn to exit the motel parking lot, he looks both ways to make a snap decision to forgo the ice cream and go right for the drive to the beach. They'll stop along the way to gas up, pick out some junk food and soda... whatever Sam wants. It's on Dad.

Dean drives with one hand on the wheel as he swivels his head to press a gentle kiss to Sam's brow and Sam huddles more comfortably under his arm. It's the way they are with one another, the simple complexity of their brotherly affections. Maye it's wrong or maybe it's perfectly right... all that they know is that it's what makes them happiest, being together, alone... without Dad hounding them to serve a purpose and revenge Mom's death. They try not to wonder what their life would be like had things gone way-more different, but then that would steal away the closeness that they have now... and they can't afford to lose that. Not ever.

Each Winchester son is different, but oddly they find similarities in one another that stave off the battles of typical siblings. Both are equally as damaged as the other and they have enough tragedy between them that should have torn them apart but yet... here they sit, unable to pull apart for one minute...

It's not brotherhood, in general. It's simply who Sam and Dean are and will always be.

 **~*~the end**


End file.
